


When You Move, I Move

by forensicleaf



Category: Fantastic Four, Fantastic Four (Comicverse), Marvel, Marvel (Comics), Spider-Man (Comicverse), Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Fluff, M/M, My First Smut, Or I tried at least, PWP, Smut, Standard spideytorch banter, They love each other so much okay, but more like porn with feelings, i can’t believe I just wrote that, spideytorch - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-11
Updated: 2021-01-11
Packaged: 2021-03-15 01:20:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28680246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/forensicleaf/pseuds/forensicleaf
Summary: Peter takes in the sight of him, feeling his body thrum with a whole different kind of adrenaline – one that he can never seem to quash no matter how many times he sees Johnny like this, blond hair against the pillow and tanned skin against the sheets. Against their sheets. He’s radiant, even in sleep, and like the Earth around the sun, Peter can’t seem to escape his gravity.Not that he’d ever want to.
Relationships: Peter Parker/Johnny Storm
Comments: 25
Kudos: 101





	When You Move, I Move

**Author's Note:**

> PLEASE re-read the tags and check the rating. This isn’t my usual stuff! (Also, please don’t make eye contact with me, thanks 😅)

The lamp is on in the living room when Peter crawls down to the window, the light of it spilling across the surfaces and bathing the room in a warm glow. He slips in through the open frame and lands on his feet with a soft thump, tearing his mask off and running a gloved hand through sweat-stranded hair.

His heart is still beating fast, breaths coming quickly from the exertion and elation of swinging through the city. That combined with the adrenaline that can only come from serving up an ass-kicking to the latest animal-themed nut job terrorising New York City has him feeling good, buzzed even, and his eyes sweep the room, hopeful.

He finds Johnny in the bedroom, flat out and breathing deeply, limbs tangled in the ridiculously expensive sheets he’d insisted they buy when they’d moved in together because _y_ _ou might be okay with polyester, Pete, but I have standards._

Peter takes in the sight of him, feeling his body thrum with a whole different kind of adrenaline—one that he can never seem to quash no matter how many times he sees Johnny like this, blond hair against the pillow and tanned skin against the sheets. Against _their_ sheets. He’s radiant, even in sleep, and like the Earth around the sun, Peter can’t seem to escape his gravity.

Not that he’d ever want to.

He peels the rest of the suit off, tossing it into the corner with all the other clothes he’s been planning on getting around to, and mentally promises to sort it in the morning, lest he face the wrath of Johnny and his neat freak tendencies. He really should take a shower, but he finds himself treading lightly across the room instead, body almost vibrating with the energy he hasn’t quite managed to burn off. He’d been hoping Johnny would still be up to help him take care of that, but he’s not going to wake him. 

He _shouldn’t_ wake him.

He’s not going to—

“Hey,” he says quietly, dipping the mattress as he sidles up behind Johnny.

Johnny makes a soft ‘hmmf’ noise as Peter presses up against his back and slips an arm around his waist, but he doesn’t open his eyes. His skin is so, so warm, as always, and Peter can’t help but lean in and gently kiss his shoulder, relishing the heat against his wind-chilled lips. He huffs a laugh as Johnny makes that noise again.

“Pete?” Johnny’s voice is barely a mumble. He starts to stir, but Peter splays his palm against his chest, pulling him back against his own, holding him in place as he kisses a line up Johnny’s neck, along his jaw.

“Hey, Hot Stuff.”

Johnny smiles. He turns his head and Peter ducks down and captures that smile in a kiss, deep and languid and restrained of the urgency that’s humming just beneath his skin. Still in the clutches of sleep, Johnny responds slowly at first, mouth opening under Peter’s almost like muscle memory. But then he’s surging up to chase Peter’s lips, mouth hot and skin hot and everything just _hot._

“You kept me waiting,” he says when they break apart. 

“I know. 

“On date night.”

“I know that, too.”

Johnny frowns. “Do you also know how I spent my evening?” he says. “Eating way too much pasta and watching Charmed re-runs. _Charmed,_ Pete. I hate Charmed.”

“The nineties fashion,” Peter says solemnly. 

“The nineties fashion.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No, you’re not,” Johnny says with a soft snort. 

“No,” Peter laughs, “I’m not. But I’m going to make it up to you anyway.” He kisses across Johnny’s cheek, his temple. Closes his teeth gently on the shell of Johnny’s ear. “Will you let me make it up to you?”

Johnny shivers against him. “I suppose,” he says, somewhat nonchalant, but his body betrays its interest. His breathing picks up with the slide of Peter’s hand down the flat plane of his stomach. It hitches with the gentle brush of a thumb over a nipple, stutters when Peter’s fingers ghost over the outline of his cock, already starting to strain against the fabric of his boxers.

“You suppose? Seems like you’re pretty open to the idea to me.” He palms Johnny through his soft, most-definitely-cost-more-than-Peter’s-entire-wardrobe briefs, delighting in the way Johnny’s hips twitch and his breaths come heavier. He presses down harder and suppresses a groan as Johnny rocks into his hand, can’t help the roll of his own hips against that heavenly ass of his. “ _Fuck._ I’ve been thinking about you all night,” he says against Johnny’s lips. “Been thinking about this.”

“You have, huh?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Can’t wait to see the Bugle’s front page tomorrow, then. ‘ _Spider-man terrorises New York with his massive boner.’_ The suit doesn’t leave much to the imagination, you know.”

“Mm, neither do these.” Peter plays at the waistband of Johnny’s briefs. His fingers slip under, and Johnny wriggles as he pushes the fabric down his hips, over the glorious swell of his ass and downy soft thighs. Then they’re skin to skin, nothing but desire and Peter’s aching cock between them. 

“Better.” Peter squeezes at Johnny’s hip, fingers sliding forward. When he finally takes the long, hot length of him in his fist, Johnny gasps. It’s a sweet sound. Peter likes the way it feels against his mouth, the way he feels it in his chest, pressed as he is up against Johnny’s back. He’s never going to tire of hearing these noises pulled from Johnny, knowing he’s the one who coaxed them out. He presses his lips firmly against Johnny’s, tasting the quiet moans that go straight down to his cock.

His thumb sweeps gently over Johnny’s tip, spreading the moisture beading up there, and the groan Johnny lets out has Peter’s hips twitching forward of their own accord.

“Fuck,” he breathes, coming up for air for just a second. He rests his forehead against Johnny’s shoulder, against the heat that pours off him in waves, dizzying and intoxicating and addictive. He really doesn’t think Johnny knows the full extent of the effect he has on him.

“Thought that was the idea,” Johnny says with a slow roll of his hips, ass grinding back against Peter’s throbbing dick.

Scratch that; Johnny knows exactly what he’s doing.

He exhales hard, hand grasping just the right side of too tight at Johnny’s hip to hold him still. He’s so hard he feels like he’s one grind away from the fun being over before it’s even really begun. Nonexistent refractory period aside, that isn’t what Peter wants. He wants to be inside Johnny, inside all that tight warm heat, wants to see him come apart beneath him, around him. 

With a growl he flips Johnny onto his back, sees the bright flare of desire in his eyes as he looks up through those criminally long lashes. 

“That’s it,” Johnny breathes, “c’mon, c’mon.” His hips buck as Peter kisses a trail down his chest, his perfect abs. His fingers tangle in Peter’s hair, nails scraping pleasantly against his scalp. 

“Patience,” Peter murmurs between kisses as he makes his way lower and lower. His pins Johnny’s hips beneath his palms, pressing them just the right side of too hard into the mattress, the way Johnny likes. 

“You wouldn't have any either if you’d been waiting here all night,” Johnny gasps. 

“All night, huh?” Peter says. His breath ghosts over the head of Johnny’s cock, and he watches it jump in response. “You must have a terrible boyfriend, leaving you all alone.”

Johnny laughs, a shaky, breathless thing. “Oh,” he sighs, attempting to sound all forlorn. He’s not going to be winning any Oscars any time soon, but Peter feels the corner of his mouth twitch up in an affectionate half-smile at the dramatic effort. “He’s the wor— _uh!_ ”

Jonny’s back arches. Slowly, Peter draws his mouth back up the length of his cock, letting go of the tip with a deliberately wet pop.

“What was that?”

Johnny gives him a long-suffering look. “You’re the worst,” he says, flat, but his eyes are shining and Peter can’t help but laugh. “Stop teasing.”

“Okay, okay,” Peter concedes, gesturing for Johnny to pass him the bottle of lube from the bedside drawer. He slips his fingers down over Johnny’s balls, the sensitive skin behind and between his cheeks to—

_Oh._

He feels his mouth go dry, has to swallow hard.

“Did you—” His voice comes out all weird, and he has to clear his throat. “You really were waiting for me, huh, Hot Stuff?”

He presses a finger into Johnny, already all slick and hot and ready for him, and then another, heart pounding at the way Johnny gasps as he does, head tipped back against the pillow.

“Maybe,” Johnny says. Eyes half-lidded and lips kiss-swollen, he smirks. “But you were late. So.”

“So…?” Peter asks, curling his fingers slowly against that spot that has Johnny moaning, back lifting from the mattress and fists clenching in the sheets.

“So, _ngh,_ so now I don’t know if you deserve it,” Johnny says, breathlessly.

He doesn’t. Peter already knows that he doesn’t. He doesn’t deserve any of this—any of Johnny, laid out beneath him all golden and glowing, so beautiful and full of love, and all of it for him. Why the two of them wasted years dancing around each other, flirting and bickering and never quite carrying through when the whole time they could have had this, Peter will never understand.

But no matter, they have it now.

Carefully he withdraws his fingers. He hooks a hand behind Johnny’s knee, pulling it up against his waist, leans forward until he’s covering Johnny with his body, arms braced either side of golden tanned shoulders. Faces inches apart now, he dips down and brushes his nose against Johnny’s, back and forward and back again. “You gonna stop me?” he murmurs against Johnny’s lips.

He pulls back. Just enough to take in Johnny’s pupils, blown wide, his flushed cheeks. He’s so goddamn beautiful it makes Peter‘s heart ache. Even now. Even after all this time. 

“No,” Johnny breathes, locking his ankles at the small of Peter’s back and giving an insistent tug, and, well. Far be it from Peter to deny Johnny Storm anything he wants.

The first press in is slow and smooth and Peter savours it, feels every inch, blood-hot and tight and _perfect_ , so perfect. He groans as he bottoms out. Johnny does too, thighs quivering where they cling to his waist. 

“Oh, _fuuuck.”_

Peter pulls back until just the head of his dick is being squeezed in that viselike grip. He grins. “Thought that was the idea,” he says. Then he drives back in and they’re off. 

His hips snap forward; Johnny rises up to meet each thrust, pulling him in closer. It’s everything and it’s still not enough. Thighs flush against thighs, pressed as far inside as he can be, Peter wants more. Always more. He wonders if Johnny knows how completely he owns him. If he knows what Peter would do for even a fraction of this. To keep it, forever. 

He slides a hand under Johnny’s back, lifting him up; the other slides down his arm to tangle with fingers clawing at sheets. Johnny’s eyes flutter shut on a moan and Peter can tell the new position is angling his dick in just the right way, hitting that spot that makes Johnny shake. He pushes in harder. 

“Uh-uh, Torchie, eyes open,” he pants. “I want to see you. Look at me.”

Johnny’s eyes are all black when he complies, almost none of that sky blue all the entertainment magazines wax poetic about in their hottest one hundred or best dressed countdowns. This is the Johnny they don’t get to see—open and unpolished and free, the Johnny who hums while he brushes his teeth and makes pancakes in an apron with his perfect ass out, to Peter’s endless delight. Who lets himself just _be._ This is the Johnny that’s just for him.

The thought makes Peter dive down, capture his lips in a searing, open-mouthed kiss, makes him press his nose into the damp hollow of his throat, sucking on his collarbone. His hips piston, Johnny’s hands sunk deep into his hair and tugging just shy of painful.

“God, I love you,” Peter finds himself saying. His mouth is working on autopilot, spewing out truths. “You’re so fucking hot. So fucking hot for me.”

Johnny laughs, breathless and wonderful. “You say that to all the guys who can light themselves on fire?”

“Just you, Flame Brain. Only you.”

He pulls Johnny up then, until he’s sitting in his lap, weight dragging him down onto Peter’s cock, still buried deep inside. Peter trails a hand down his spine, over the dimples at his lower back until he meets the generous curve of his ass. Each cheek gets a hand, fingers splayed and kneading. Peter brushes a finger over where he and Johnny are joined together and shudders. 

“Pete,” Johnny says, pulling on the short hairs at the base of his skull to tilt his face up. “Fuck me.”

And really, what can Peter do with that but oblige? Hands under thighs, he lifts Johnny up and drops him back down, fucking up into him with new abandon. Johnny’s cock bounces between them, rock hard and leaking and grazing Peter’s stomach with every thrust. 

“Oh, Pete.” Johnny’s head is thrown back. “Oh fuck.”

“Touch yourself,” Peter says. He can feel his balls tightening, pleasure coiling low in his gut, but he wants to see Johnny come apart first, wants to feel him shaking and burning as he comes undone. “I want to see you.”

Johnny reaches down and takes himself into his fist, pumping his dick in time with Peter’s thrusts. Peter looks up at him, chest flushed and damp with sweat, blond curls haloed in the low light and thinks he’s never been more in love. 

“That’s it,” he breathes as Johnny’s rhythm stutters, his thighs starting to tremble. “That’s it, I’ve got you. Let go.” And with a cry, Johnny does. 

He spills between them, shuddering and panting as he paints their stomachs white. Peter fucks him through it, feels the way he clamps down on his cock in pulses, his temperature increasing that little bit the way it always does when he loses control. It’s beautiful, and sexy and it’s too much. Peter presses his forehead to Johnny’s chest, his own rhythm faltering, heart pounding. And then with a low groan, he’s coming too, vision whiting out as he empties himself inside of Johnny, tight and wet and hot.

When he comes back to himself what could be a minute or maybe fifteen hours later, his heart still feels like it’s trying to gallop out of his chest, his breaths coming in ragged pants. He hears Johnny’s—an echo of the same. “Fuck,” he breathes, laughing a little as he winds his arms around Johnny’s back, pulling him close. “That was… _fuck.”_

“That sounds about right, yeah,” Johnny says above him. “I don’t think I can feel my legs.”

“Here.” Peter drops his hands to Johnny’s hips, thumbs rubbing small circles into his thighs. Johnny sighs against him, all loose and boneless and warm. Light fingers cup Peter’s face, lifting it so Johnny can lean down and press a kiss, featherlight, to his brow. 

“Hey, what’s this?” he says, thumb swiping under Peter’s eye, where Peter is sure he’s got to have one hell of a shiner blooming, courtesy of one Aleksei Sytsevich. 

He shrugs. “Just another day on the job.” Then he reaches up to cup the back of Johnny’s head and drag him down further, sealing their mouths together, slow and languid and full of affection. 

He breaks away when a shift of Johnny’s hips has him hissing in sensitivity. “Hang on a sec,” he says, lifting Johnny off of him with care. 

“That’s so sexy. Full marks,” Johnny comments of being held aloft like he weighs nothing—which, to Peter, of course, might as well be the case. Peter flashes a grin and drops him onto the mattress, where he lands with a soft flump. 

He flops down beside him, propping himself up on an elbow so he can look at Johnny, spread out and glowing in post-orgasmic bliss. The sheets are a mess and so are they, come cooling on their skin. Peter gropes around for Johnny’s boxers and brings them up to wipe down Johnny’s front. 

“No!” Johnny shouts. “Those are—” Peter pauses, hand already pressed to Johnny’s slick abs. “—Ralph Laurens,” he finishes with a sigh. 

Peter arches a brow. “Who? Should I be jealous?”

“No, it’s a— Forget about it,” Johnny says with a snort. 

Peter finishes cleaning them both off as best he can seeing as neither of them can be bothered to get up and go to the bathroom. He tosses the briefs somewhere in the direction of his suit—also hopelessly dirtied, but hopefully more salvageable. 

“So,” he says, sprawled out beside Johnny. He takes his hand, interlinking their fingers, presses a kiss to each knuckle. “Does this mean I’m forgiven?”

Johnny laughs. His hand squeezes where it’s clasped tight in Peter’s. 

“For what?”

**Author's Note:**

> Ahh first time writing smut. I swear this has been in my drafts for over a year because I just couldn’t type out the word cock without wanting to shrivel into a ball and yeet myself out of existence. 
> 
> Anyhow. I’m very nervous about this. I’d really appreciate you taking the time to leave a comment and let me know what you think!


End file.
